


That Which Yields

by tristesses



Category: Kushiel's Legacy - Jacqueline Carey, Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Legends: Thrawn Trilogy - Timothy Zahn
Genre: (but no actual slavery), A surprising amount of politics for a sex scene, Alien Biology, Anal Fingering, Blindfolds, Bondage, Butt Plugs, Crossover, F/M, Femdom, Manipulation as foreplay, Master/Slave, Xeno
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-09
Updated: 2018-06-09
Packaged: 2019-05-20 07:02:23
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,756
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14889836
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/tristesses/pseuds/tristesses
Summary: Thrawn and Melisande dabble in games of power on more than one playing field.(Star Wars/Kushiel's Legacy crossover. Knowledge of Kushiel not required, but you should probably be familiar with Star Wars.)





	That Which Yields

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much to 13th_blackbird for the beta and ap_trash_compactor for the encouragement!

_"Everything in the world is about sex except sex. Sex is about power." - Oscar Wilde_

_"That which yields is not always weak." - Jacqueline Carey_

* * *

 

Thrawn stood on the bridge of the _Admonitor_ and gazed out the viewport at Terre d'Ange, his hands clasped behind his back. The planet hung in the blackness of space like a jewel, sparkling cities dominating the surface, surrounded by expansive nature preserves. Streaks of white clouds obscured parts of the globe; there was a vast cyclone gathering near its equator. Thrawn estimated it would make landfall within three days. Happily, he would be on the opposite side of the planet when it wreaked its destruction on the continent.

Yes, this was Terre d'Ange as promised: a beautiful planet populated by a beautiful people. An _independent_ planet—for now. Thrawn had every confidence that they would bow to the Empire's might willingly, and if not…he had the _Admonitor_ for a reason, and other plans besides.

"Hail the ambassador," he said coolly to the comms officer. 

In a moment, the face of the D'Angeline ambassador, Lady L'Envers, flickered to life on the holopod before them.

"Grand Admiral," she said with a polite bow of her head. Her chestnut hair was tucked inside a lace cap fringed with jewels, undoubtedly the height of fashion on her homeworld; D'Angelines were said to be vain. Thrawn examined the cap with interest, noting the complexity of the pattern and the placement of the jewels. Subtle, yet unnecessarily intricate; a similar stitch could have had the same effect but cost less time to create. This data he filed away to be compared with other examples of D'Angeline art, once he'd seen them. 

"I greet you, in the name of Terre d'Ange and House Courcel," she said.

"As I greet you in the name of the Empire. I trust you have made adequate preparations to receive my retinue?"

A look of dissatisfaction flickered across L'Envers' face, quickly enough that most eyes wouldn't have caught it. The ruling house of Terre d'Ange had been putting off his visit for nearly two weeks now, and Thrawn had had to make a veiled threat on one of their colony worlds to get them to capitulate. He was glad they had seen sense; negotiation was preferable to unnecessary bloodshed.

"We have, my lord Admiral," she said steadily, her irritation unnoticeable in her voice, but made evident by the tension in her shoulders. "May I congratulate you on your timing? You've arrived in time to witness one of our most joyous celebrations of the year—the Longest Night."

"A winter solstice festival, I assume."

"Yes, indeed." A trace of surprise showed in her eyes; did she think he would not draw the obvious conclusion? "A very old tradition, paying reverence to the return of the sun and ushering in the spring. We celebrate it with—ah," she said in clear frustration, her Basic failing her. "I am afraid I don't know the word in your tongue. _Iqambi_?"

"Ah," Thrawn said, recognizing the Sy Bisti word. "A masquerade."

"Thank you, my lord Admiral." She bowed her head, and glanced up at him from under her lashes. A move that could be interpreted as flirtatious, but was, Thrawn thought, a way of assessing him without staring boldly. "You are of course welcome at the Royal Midwinter Masquerade, if you are so inclined."

"I am interested, yes," Thrawn said. "When will your port be ready for my shuttle?"

She looked away from him to key in a set of commands into her terminal, then said, "It is ready now. At your convenience, Grand Admiral."

"I will depart at once," Thrawn said. "Thank you for your assistance, Lady L'Envers."

"I will see you on the surface," she replied, and the holo winked out.

"A masquerade?" Captain Niriz asked skeptically the instant L'Envers was out of sight. "Do you really plan on going, Admiral?"

"Certainly," Thrawn said. "It will no doubt be very informative. I will take a squad of stormtroopers and Lieutenant Commander Zendu with me. Have them meet me in Hangar Three. Captain: you have the bridge."

He spun on his heel and headed to the hangar, thoughtful. Yes, nine stormtroopers and his aide would be more than enough; he anticipated no violence from the D'Angelines, but a wise commander was always prepared.

* * *

  
D'Angeline art proved most illuminating, confirming and building upon his original interpretation of the lace cap. The lack of other species depicted in even their contemporary art, in addition to their fixation with their homeworld at the expense of their colony worlds, indicated a tendency towards xenophobia. The sensuality of their sculptures pointed to an easy, even casual, relationship with physical pleasure. And their textiles, much like the lace cap, emphasized complexity over convenience—beautiful but impractical, excessively intricate.

Excessively intricate, yes. Much like D'Angeline politics. He had been there three days, and had made little progress towards his ultimate goal. But Thrawn was certain Terre d'Ange would ultimately capitulate.

Lady L'Envers, playing escort and diplomat both, had introduced him to a dizzying array of people, all with the unsettling beauty brought about only by the art of genetic engineering, all of whom looked at him with varying measures of wariness and curiosity. Some, of course, were more wary than others; the xenophobia he had noted in their artwork ran strong in some of the older bloodlines. He memorized names and faces, marking them down and dividing them into categories: potential ally, neutral, uncertain, potential enemy.

There was a great deal of uncertainty here, and where there was uncertainty, there was opportunity.

L'Envers had received an urgent comm and left him in what she called the Hall of Games, where the idle nobility wasted their time with games of chance—none of which were especially complicated—and gossip. 

Games of chance held no interest for him. Instead, Thrawn clasped his hands behind his back and examined the ancient murals on the ceiling of the palace. Depicted there were the D'Angeline gods, from the lead deity to the whore-goddess to the warrior. _Two_ warriors, one carrying a knife, the other a sword. Thrawn considered this for a moment, pondering the implications. Terre d'Ange could be disdained as a frivolous culture, but Thrawn suspected that they were made of sterner stuff than commonly assumed.

A woman's voice cut through his reverie: "Grand Admiral Thrawn."

Her voice was lightly accented, her Basic as good as L'Envers', if not better. Thrawn turned to greet her, and paused, eyes narrowing slightly.

The woman slid between the two stormtroopers stationed behind him. She ignored the blasters on their hips entirely; foolishness or self-assurance? She smiled at him, and it sliced like a blade, intelligence and curiosity gleaming in her eyes. 

He would have to watch her. Carefully.

"My lady," he said, choosing the most likely honorific; were she a princess, he would have been introduced already, and a commoner would not be in the Hall of Games. "You have the advantage of me."

"Of course I do," she said mildly, and dropped him a delicate curtsey. "I am Melisande."

The ancient bloodlines of Terre d'Ange were much concerned with purity, so he could pinpoint her heritage based off others he had met: a member of House Shahrizai, with her blue-black hair in waves around her face, her twilight-dark eyes gleaming.

"Lady Shahrizai," he said, and watched the slightest smile quirk her lips before it smoothed out. "I greet you."

He left it at that; let her continue the conversation. He found that people, regardless of species, were uncomfortable with silence. They flung themselves into conversational holes to fill it, and in turn revealed much more of themselves than they would perhaps have desired.

Not so Melisande Shahrizai. She observed him for a moment without speaking, meeting his gaze fully, entirely unperturbed by the crimson glow of his eyes.

"Will you walk with me?" she asked, once she had looked to her satisfaction. Thrawn was certain she had learned nothing from his face, but no irritation showed in her voice. "I confess I am curious as to your purpose here."

"My purpose is strictly diplomatic, as I'm sure you know," he countered, but chose to walk with her, starting a long circuit around the perimeter of the Hall. "Your king is transparent with his subjects."

"Yes." Her voice was neutral, giving away nothing. "And yet, a state visit can serve more than one purpose. One can learn much during a simple diplomatic conference."

"Such information is always useful," he agreed. "Nonetheless, my mission is as I said: diplomatic."

"Mission," she murmured. "A military term. Interesting to use it in a _diplomatic_ context, no?"

"I am a military commander," he said. "It's only natural that I would default to military phrasing."

"It is also interesting that your leader sends an admiral to do his negotiations," she replied. "In Terre d'Ange, the ambassador corps and the military are separate."

She was fishing for information. He would not give it to her.

"It is so on many worlds," he said neutrally. "Perhaps I was merely the most convenient representative at first contact between our governments."

"Ah, Grand Admiral," she said with a sideways smile, "I doubt your presence here is mere convenience."

Thrawn raised an eyebrow at her. To say nothing was tantamount to admitting it; to disagree would be an unconvincing lie, and only confirm her suspicions.

He settled for, "Perhaps," and allowed her to draw her own conclusions. Behind her pleasant expression, there was a cold mind calculating. Thrawn could sense it, the same way he could sense the warrior in the way she walked, or the predator in the way she looked at him.

"Is it true you will be attending the Midwinter Masque?" she asked, jumping to another topic completely.

"I plan on it," he said, and she paused midstep. Thrawn stopped as well and turned to face her. There was a faint smile on her lips.

"Wearing a mask is traditional," she said, and raised her hand to brush her fingers along Thrawn's cheek. He stiffened, but did not pull away. "A pity it will have to cover up your unique features. You're too handsome to wear one."

"Flattery will get you nowhere with me," he said, and she laughed again.

"I will see you on the Longest Night, Grand Admiral," she said, and dropped him another curtsy. "Good day."

He nodded at her, and watched her walk away. There were, of course, those in the D'Angeline political sphere who suspected his true purpose in recruiting Terre d'Ange to the Empire, but Melisande was certain of it. She knew something; she held cards he was unaware she had been dealt. It was an intriguing puzzle. Was she aware how dangerous this game was?

He thought she was.

He could still feel her fingers on his face. An unwelcome intrusion, and yet it had sent a shiver down his spine.

"My lord admiral!"

This from L'Envers, who was slightly flustered as she hurried to his side. "I apologize; I didn't expect that call to take so long."

"Nothing bad, I hope?" he inquired, and she shook her head, her brow creasing.

"No, simply a miscommunication," she said. "A friend thought I'd contacted him with an emergency—I obviously didn't. I don't know whose message was delivered to him."

Charmingly naïve, to attribute this to an error in their communications network. Thrawn sensed someone else's hand in this; someone, perhaps, who had wanted to speak with him alone. An opening gambit. Thrawn smiled to himself.

"I met a curious individual while you were gone," he said. "Melisande Shahrizai. Do you know of her?"

A myriad of expressions crossed L'Envers' face, chief among them frustration, and, very interestingly, a hint of fear.

"I know her, yes," L'Envers said cautiously. "What did she say?"

"That I needed a mask for the Longest Night," Thrawn said, which was conveniently both the truth and a lie at the same time. 

L'Envers relaxed minutely.

"Be careful around her," she said. "She likes a challenge—and you might not like the sort of games the Shahrizai play."

"Explain," he said.

"They enjoy the sharper pleasures, the Shahrizai," she said, weighing her words carefully. "But I won't go into detail. I understand that your Empire is less—understanding, shall we say, of the benefits of carnal pleasure. I don't wish to shock you."

"You won't," he assured her. "I believe I understand your implication. I will, as you say, be careful."

And he would, though he was less concerned with Melisande's games of sadomasochism than with the gleam in her eye as she considered his purpose on the planet.

He would be very careful indeed.

* * *

  
When Thrawn returned to his assigned suite late that night, there was a gift waiting for him, an unmarked and elegantly-wrapped package the size of a datapad.  
He ran a series of scans on the box before opening it; it seemed unlikely that anyone would attempt to assassinate him in the Palace, but caution was always prudent. It was free of contagions, poisons, or bombs, nor did it contain any organic material. Finally—and not without a bit of curiosity—he deemed it safe to open.

It was a mask, one that covered only the cheeks and nose, similar to the colombina masks worn in the Empire. The top half was black silk, of so fine a quality his calloused fingertips caught in its delicate weave. The lower half was pressed gold, real metal, embossed with a pattern of interlocking keys. Thrawn ran his fingers over them thoughtfully; what did the keys symbolize? Were they meant to lock or unlock? He associated the symbol with the opening of doors, as did most near-human cultures, but doors to what?

_Carnal pleasures_ , he heard L'Envers say in his head, and briefly thought of Melisande's knife-sharp smile. Desire was the D'Angeline preoccupation, but somehow, that seemed like too easy an answer to the question.

He turned the mask around in his hands. The craftsmanship was exquisite. Thrawn held it up to his face and found it fit there perfectly, as if the designer had deliberately molded it to his features.

It was, in short, a work of art.

It was also a weapon.

Though he did not yet understand the symbolism of the mask, it was clear that to wear it would be to send a message. Perhaps it would mark him as beholden to the gift-giver; perhaps it would cause insult or gossip among the nobles he most needed to sway to his side. Regardless, it was unsafe to wear.

He had his own mask for the Longest Night: a simple white domino with gold piping to match his uniform. There was no point to truly deceiving anyone here with a more elaborate costume. Even if he could find something that covered his skin and his eyes, the court was too insular for a stranger to go unnoticed. It was unfortunate—not only could he gather good intel undercover, he rather enjoyed the game of deception.

He eyed the mask, and carefully set it down in its box, where it would be protected from jostling in transport. He would add it to his collection; it was art, after all.

As for its giver, he had spent much of the day gathering information on her. Melisande Shahrizai was, it appeared, a woman to be reckoned with—a fact which Thrawn had known after spending five minutes with her, but one that had apparently eluded her two dead husbands and a good deal of the men and women she had neatly removed from their positions of power in favor of her relatives, merely with a few words placed in the right ears. She had an interesting combination of intelligence and ruthlessness, which Thrawn found compelling. She could be very useful to him. Perhaps more so than the throne of Terre d'Ange itself. It was something to consider.

Certainly, it left him with one real course of action: interrogate Melisande Shahrizai on the Longest Night, when the D'Angeline court was at its most debauched and they would not be missed.

One way or another, he would get the information he needed.

* * *

  
One hour to midnight, and the masque was less of a party than a living thing. The hall was a mass of people writhing in dance, intoxicated and giddy with it—and, off in dark corners, writhing in pleasure as well. Thrawn stood at the edge of the crowd and observed with curiosity, but partook in neither the dancing nor the sex. One he had no particular interest in, and the other was something he chose to do only in privacy.

Besides, he was waiting for someone.

At his side, his aide clung like an escort ship to its frigate. Zendu hadn't left Thrawn all night, though there had been no lack of interest in his direction from the D'Angelines. He looked terrified behind his black mask. Well, there was little precedence for this level of hedonism in the Imperial Navy; Thrawn understood his discomfort. However, it was…inconvenient, considering Thrawn's plans for the evening.

"Relax, Commander," Thrawn murmured to him. "They won't bite."

"Due respect, sir, they might," Zendu muttered back. His voice was nearly obscured by the pulsing throb of the bass that had taken over the classic D'Angeline music that had been playing before. 

"Not without your explicit consent," Thrawn pointed out. "D'Angelines are very particular about that."

His aide blushed, which Thrawn noted with some amusement. Still, it was proper to remind him he was ultimately in control here.

"Remember," Thrawn told him quietly, "that you are a lieutenant commander of the Imperial Navy." Zendu's eyes, previously fixed on the crowd, flicked towards him. "You have nothing to fear from these people."

"I'm not afraid," Zendu protested, as Thrawn knew he would. 

"No?" Thrawn asked with a politely raised eyebrow. _Then prove it_ , he did not say, nor would he, but that was what Zendu heard. His lips pressed together and he lifted his head. Yes, there was a streak of pride in his aide, one easy to exploit, if Thrawn chose to do so.

"No," Zendu said definitively. He glanced around as surreptitiously as he could, and his gaze landed on a young man whose brilliant blue costume enhanced his dark skin. "Sir, do you need me for the rest of the night?"

"I do not," Thrawn said, keeping the amusement from his voice. "Keep your comlink with you. Enjoy the party."

"Yes, sir." Zendu slipped from his side into the mass of people, moving in a straight line towards the man in blue. Thrawn watched him thoughtfully. Unlike in Terre d'Ange or the Chiss Ascendancy, same-sex couplings were frowned upon in the Empire. If that was the sole place Zendu's interest lay, it would be a difficult road to walk, should he desire long-term companionship.

Thrawn, luckily, had no such desires. His partners were for the short-term only, on the rare occasions he took them.

He turned away from Zendu, now lost in the crowd, and ran straight into Melisande Shahrizai.

She stepped away smoothly, the level of the liquid in the glasses she carried barely changing. Thrawn in turn stepped back as well, leaving a comfortable amount of space between them.

"Lady Shahrizai," he said, inclining his head.

"Grand Admiral," she greeted him, and held out a glass.

Thrawn took it, studying her costume. She was draped in a column of midnight black silk, clinging to her breasts and hips and falling straight to the floor, but more intriguing than the way her gown fit her were the golden feathers lining her sheer shawl, each one carefully pressed from gold and sewn onto the shawl so they cascaded around her shoulders. Her mask was black, too, with smaller feathers sprouting from the side, and a proud, sharp beak extending over her nose. She wore rings on the first two fingers of each hand that mimicked the arches of talons over her fingernails.

"A bird of prey," he said. "Very appropriate."

"Is it?" she asked blandly.

"Given what I have heard of the Shahrizai," he said. "And of you."

"You've been asking about me?" A smile dimpled her face. "Grand Admiral, I'm honored."

"I have been told about you," he corrected, rather disingenuously; but after so many years in the Imperial Court, Thrawn had learned the value of a well-placed lie. "Many people have much to say. And if you wish, you may simply call me Admiral. It's easier than the full title."

"I like the title," she said. "I find it rolls off the tongue beautifully in your language."

Flirtation. Thrawn had never been particularly good at this game. Rather grimly, he considered her words and ran through potential responses in his head, quickly enough there would be no lapse in the conversation.

But Melisande cut him off, laying her hand on his upper arm. Her touch was light, but he could feel the firmness lying dormant in her grip. 

"You don't need to flirt with me," she said, eerily pinpointing his thoughts. "I don't think either of us are interested in those sorts of games tonight. Are we?"

"No," he said. "But neither am I interested in _your_ sort of game, Lady Shahrizai."

"On the contrary," she said, and though her voice was light, her eyes were still and thoughtful. "I think you are."

Her grip tightened slightly. Thrawn narrowed his eyes at her. Not particularly strong, but sure of herself; she had the confidence of a Chiss.

He had not planned to interrogate her from his knees, but perhaps it would be for the best if he gave in to her whims for now. His questioning might later take her by surprise, and startle answers from her he wouldn't have heard otherwise.

He scanned Melisande's face, and reevaluated. No, she was already prepared for such a thing; he would have to be a few steps ahead of her to gain any meaningful intel.

"Perhaps I am," he conceded finally, and found his lips curling in a thin smile. For her benefit? He wondered.

"Then, Grand Admiral," she said, and guided his arm into the proper position to escort her, sliding her hand into the crook of his elbow, "shall we go to my townhouse?"

Briefly, Thrawn considered the negatives of being seen leaving the Masque with Melisande Shahrizai. He would earn enemies, that was to be certain; others might see him as weak.

But in the time he'd spent on Terre d'Ange, his ultimate goal had changed. The capitulation of the royal family was less important than Melisande's involvement with a more personal scheme of Thrawn's—for although she was dangerous, she could yet be of value to him.

Let them gossip. Thrawn would get nowhere with Melisande if he turned down her invitation now.

Carefully, he laid his fingers across hers. Her hand was hot beneath his; humans ran much warmer than Chiss.

"We shall," he said, and reflected a bit on the irony of his next words. "Lead the way."

* * *

  
Melisande's pleasure chamber was dimly lit, the way Thrawn preferred it, though whether she liked it that way or had divined his preference using intel from whatever spy she had on his ship—and he was certain there was one; Security was searching for them or it even now—was unknown.

Thrawn untucked Melisande's hand from his arm, gently to avoid disturbing her jewelry, and gazed around the room. It was long and rectangular: elegant, refined, a curious blending of the modern and the antique with its subtle wood paneling and delicate filigree hiding touch-activated control panels, used for unknown purposes—though Thrawn had his theories.

It was also a torture chamber.

There was a hook in the ceiling with a pair of dangling handcuffs attached to it; an X-frame against the wall, also armed with restraints; stocks in front of a couch that put Thrawn in mind of spectators watching a punishment; and a triangular couch which momentarily perplexed Thrawn, until into his mind came the vivid mental image of being bent over it and—and what? Spanked? Whipped? Tied down and caressed, teased by Melisande's cruel hands and lilting voice until he was forced to beg?

Thrawn quickly calculated the last time he had felt true desire. It had been a very long time, but he still recognized the heat coalescing within him for what it was.

"Before I show you the flagellary," Melisande murmured, breaking his reverie, "we must of course discuss the matter of your _signale_."

" _Signale_?" Thrawn repeated. His D'Angeline was far too limited for his own taste; he should have studied harder.

"A word that indicates your consent," she clarified. "And your withdrawal of it, should it be spoken."

"Is _stop_ not acceptable for D'Angelines?" he asked dryly. 

"Not with the sort of games I play," she said. Thrawn considered that for a moment. Games of force, play-rape—perhaps he had thought about it before, but he would not indulge these fantasies here. Not with this woman.

"Stop will be suitable for tonight," he said firmly, and Melisande nodded. Her face was set and thoughtful; this, she took very seriously.

"Very well," she said. "Let me show you the flagellary." 

She touched the wall and the wood faded into a sleek console. Thrawn watched with interest; they didn't have technology quite like this in the Empire. She tapped on the console and a cabinet on the far side of the room slid open.

Inside it was a cornucopia of disciplinary devices: whips, crops, spiked pinwheels, feathered floggers, blindfolds, stun cuffs, gags and bridles, restraints and hoods—Thrawn raised an eyebrow and turned to Melisande.

"I hope you don't intend to use all of these at once," he said dryly.

"On the contrary," she said with a raised eyebrow. She touched his chest with the tip of a talon, slid it upwards until it was resting over his pulse. The metal dug into his skin like the tip of a knife. Unthinking, Thrawn tilted his head back, baring the underside of his chin, and she made a noise of approval, the talon following the line of his jaw and carressing his cheekbones, then the arch of his brow. It came dangerously near his eye; he didn't wince.

She turned her hand and stroked his lower lip with her thumb, the feel of warm flesh instead of cold metal a shock. His lips parted for her and she slid her thumb inside his mouth, pressing it against his tongue. He tasted the citrus of her lotion and the curiously soft texture of human skin, wondered if she would press further in and make him gag. Wishing for it, in a way.

He would have to be very careful walking the line between his own desire and his manipulation of Melisande.

Then she gave him that blade-sharp smile, a predator's smile, and said, "You will take off your clothes, Grand Admiral, and choose three items from the flagellary. That is where we will start."

Thrawn had spent over three decades serving in one miltary or another; taking orders was routine for him, regardless of his rank. His hands went to his collar without protest, and he commenced with what she had ordered.

Thrawn stripped off his clothes the same way he would in the privacy of his own quarters, with military efficiency; he was not the sort of man to purposefully do a striptease. Melisande didn't seem to mind. She watched him with a smile tugging at the corner of her mouth and her gaze fixed on him.

Thrawn wondered with a pulse of unease if she had slept with a nonhuman before, or if his genitals—what he had ended up calling his cock when speaking Basic—were going to be an unwelcome surprise. Past partners had varied, some enthusiastic, others nearly repulsed, and D'Angelines were quite xenophobic.

No matter. She would react however she wanted; it would be instructive either way. Thrawn tugged off his boots and then his uniform trousers, folding them neatly, and she held up a hand.

"Stop," she said, a familiar tone of command in her voice—a tone he had heard in his own.

Thrawn stopped.

Melisande stared at him for what felt like a very long time, the moment stretching out. Thrawn assumed she liked what she saw; he was considerably older than she was, but he had kept himself in very good shape, without the pudginess so many men his age seemed to acquire. Her eyes traveled over him, taking her time on the lean planes of his chest, the curves of his thigh muscles. His cock was half-hard, but she didn't focus on it; he suspected her approach to sex would be more holistic than focused on the elements of raw pleasure.

She twirled her finger in the air, and if she had been the least bit hesitant about it, even slightly self-conscious, Thrawn would not have obeyed.

But she gave orders with the confidence of one who commands, and so Thrawn turned slowly in place, his arms resting at his sides, and allowed her to look her fill.

"Very good," she said, and her voice was a little lower, almost a purr. "Now go and get your items."

Thrawn took a step towards the cabinet—the flagellary—and she added sweetly, "And crawl."

He stiffened. He was not a particularly prideful person, he thought, but to _crawl_ for her—

She hummed under her breath, and said thoughtfully, "First, come here and kneel."

That was less objectionable; he'd planned for that. Dutifully, he dropped to his knees before her. His head was level with her hips, and he thought, with a sharp ache that made his mouth water, of hiking up her skirt and burying his face between her legs. Later, perhaps.

Melisande stroked his hair for a moment, saying nothing until the silence had elongated to the point where Thrawn was deliberately holding himself still to keep from shifting. Then, in a swift and sudden motion, she bent over and gripped his chin hard, tilting it up, forcing him to look her in the eye.

"I will not have a lover anything less than enthusiastic," she said, her voice hard. "I will not accept someone into my chambers who does not want to please me. If you cannot leave your manipulations and curiosity aside, then put on your clothes and leave, Grand Admiral."

"And what of _your_ manipulations, your curiosity?" Thrawn shot back, his voice low. It was easy to fall into the cadence of her speech, adopt her lexicon. "Will you leave those behind as well, or am I the only one in this game who is not allowed the luxury of thinking?"

Melisande's eyes lit up.

"Ah," she said, pleased, and kissed him.

A distant part of Thrawn was aware he had passed a test he hadn't known he was taking. The rest of him was extremely invested in Melisande's kiss, powerful and deep. Her lips were plush, her teeth sharp where they nipped at his bottom lip. She curled her hands in his hair, the talons scraping delightfully and painfully at his scalp, and pulled as if at the reins of a fathier until he made a sound deep in his throat and leaned into the kiss, opening his mouth for her, opening himself to her.

He could allow himself the luxury of pleasure tonight, he thought. Just one night.

She released him, a loss that startled him, and said, "Now, go choose your items. No more hesitation."

"Do you still want me to crawl?" he asked. 

She observed him for a moment before shaking her head.

"No," she said. "No. Your total surrender will only be sweet when you give it without prompting. You may walk."

His total surrender? She thought highly of her skills.

Thrawn walked steadily to the flagellary, keenly aware of Melisande's gaze on his back. He stood before him, hands clasped behind his back, and took in the wide range of implements available.

He disregarded the whips, the blades, the instruments of pain; he was not interested in that, only in control.

Control. He chose a set of four-point restraints, the leather of the cuffs sliding smoothly across his palms, and tested the strength of the material. Leather it might be, but it was reinforced with something stronger than a Chiss could break. Intriguing.

The second item he had already known he would choose: a blindfold shaped almost like the mask she had given him, an unintentional callback that made the corner of his mouth twitch in a thin smile.

The third…

A gleam of silver in a nearly-closed drawer caught his eye. It seemed unlike Melisande to forget to put away all her toys; was leaving the drawer open an accident? Thrawn took a moment to admire the elegant handle, also carved with those interlocking keys, and tugged the drawer open.

He looked at the assortment of shining silver plugs for a moment, and a shiver ran down his spine. Nothing he had not explored before—but never with a partner.

Well, as the Basic saying went: there was a first time for everything.

His fingers hovered over the plugs thoughtfully. It would be sensible to choose a small one; they could always move up in size if he so wished.

He was throbbing with desire, his cock hard and leaking, and when he thought of Melisande's clever fingers playing with him, spreading him open—

He chose the largest one.

"Interesting choices," Melisande said thoughtfully once he had brought the items back to her. Thrawn wondered how she interpreted the data. "This will be most enjoyable."

"That is the goal," he commented, and she glanced up at him. It was intriguing how these games of power panned out; she was smaller than him, weaker, less knowledgeable about the galaxy outside her own territory. And yet…

"Kneel," she said. Thrawn obeyed. She stepped around to his back. "Close your eyes."

Behind his closed lids, he could see only the dim glow of the lamps. With sure hands, Melisande bound the blindfold around his head, and then even that light was extinguished.

Thrawn's other senses magnified as he adjusted to the lack of sight. He could hear the even sound of Melisande's breathing, smell the aroma of the wooden floors and the clean leather of the cuffs dangling in Melisande's hands. Briefly, he wondered if he should have brought a hood instead, for total sensory deprivation—but no, that would be handing her too much control, more than he could trust her with.

Then the whisper of silk against skin, and Thrawn was aware of a puff of air as Melisande's dress slipped to the floor.

"Turn around and prove to me you deserve this," she said.

Thrawn shifted on his knees, his balance unaffected by the blindfold, and faced her. Blindly, he reached for her, and was rewarded by the touch of her skin against his, electrifying. Her shin. Then he slid his hand around her slim ankle, holding it delicately. Prove it to her how?

On instinct, he bowed his head and brushed a kiss against her bare foot. A gesture of total submission here, he was sure, as in the Empire. He hoped she appreciated it—appreciated a Grand Admiral of the Imperial Navy kneeling at her feet.

His uniform and insignia plaque seemed very far away right now.

Another kiss, placed above the first one, closer to where her foot met her ankle, then another by the arch of her foot. Humans were sensitive here, Thrawn knew; he paused for a moment, then lightly ran his tongue along the arch. 

Above him, Melisande shivered and sighed; a good sound, he thought, a pleased sound.

He found himself very much wanting to please her.

Emboldened, he moved his hands up her legs, tracing his fingers along the firm muscles of her calves. So she kept herself in shape, then—a dancer's body, he knew intuitively, and wished for the first time he could remove the blindfold. It wouldn't end their night together, he thought—but it would end the game, and that he did not want to do.

So he did not take off the blindfold. Instead, he caressed her, planting kisses on her legs, working his way up her thighs. Was he allowed yet to touch between her legs? Daring, he placed a kiss on her mons pubis, open-mouthed, hinting rather brashly at what he would like to do. He had the dim thought that she had no hair there, and wondered if she depilated or if D'Angelines had genetically engineered the growth of body hair out of their genome. But truthfully, he was more concerned with other things. It was a thought for another time.

Melisande did not spread her legs for him like he wished, and in fact, when he brought his hands up to her buttocks and squeezed, he was rewarded instead with pain as she grabbed his hair and twisted hard. Thrawn made a noise he would not quite call a whine and instinctively tried to twist away, but her grip was like durasteel and she would not let him. Holding him by the hair, she shook him lightly, and his hard cock twitched.

"Bold, Grand Admiral," Melisande murmured. "Too bold." She adjusted her grip on his hair and added, "Though I do like it when my slaves have a bit of fire in them."

_Slaves_. For a moment, Thrawn permitted himself to fantasize—to imagine himself truly her slave, without the nicety of a _signale_ or a way to say no, subject to her desires alone—what would she do to him? How would she use him? Collared, chained to a bed, her riding his cock while he was not allowed to come, taking her pleasure from his body. Perhaps she would allow her friends to make use of him as well. Perhaps she would—

"Down," said Melisande, as if she were talking to an ill-behaved animal, and pushed him between his shoulder-blades. 

A shudder ran through Thrawn; he liked it when she spoke to him like that, liked it rather too much.

He went down.

Chest pressed against the floor, still on his knees, he allowed her to arrange him to her liking, moving with alacrity to follow her murmured instructions. It was rather like being a lower-ranking officer again—although, Thrawn thought with a burst of humor, he had never been in a position quite like this one with any member of the Navy, superior officer or otherwise.

Soon he was how she wanted him: kneeling with his back arched to better display his buttocks, and his head on the ground, pillowed by his arms. He wondered if she would ever pay attention to his cock; if she kept on ignoring it, he would have to take matters into his own hands, and accept—most likely enjoy—her punishment.

Melisande hummed with pleasure.

"Lovely," she said. "Stay just like that."

She moved away; Thrawn listened closely, and could hear her slide open a drawer at the flagellary. She took something out—something glass, by the sound of it clinking against the wood. Then she returned and knelt by him, her body heat radiating from her like a small sun.

"You're very obedient," she said approvingly. "Tell me, did you plan to interrogate me like this, or were you expecting the night to go a different direction?"

Thrawn did not think he would be a very good interrogator at the moment, and told her so. She laughed and stroked his hair.

"You avoid the question," she said lightly. "But I won't press." Her lips at the base of his spine, along the curve of his buttocks. Her teeth sank in there, making Thrawn hiss between his teeth. He was beginning to appreciate pain as a spice to the game of control.

"I had thought of interrogating you," she said, laving the spot where she had bitten him with her tongue. She ran her nails up his thighs with one hand; the talons were off, and her nails were filed close and smooth. Curious, for a woman from such a vain culture. "In this very position, perhaps."

The clink of glass again; then Thrawn went briefly rigid as she spread his buttocks and her slick fingers pressed against the tight hole of his entrance. With a deep breath, he relaxed; he had expected this, after all, asked for it.

Melisande teased him first, running her fingers around the rim, slipping a knuckle inside then withdrawing, each stroke making Thrawn's breath come a little harder in his chest. She hadn't even penetrated him fully yet, but he was already ready for it, pressing back against her hands. Still she teased him, endlessly patient. He was biting his lip to keep from moaning, an absurd impulse to stay stoic warring with his desire.

A single finger inside him, stroking the place that always made Thrawn's toes curl, as they did now. He gasped raggedly and the word escaped him before he could bite it off: " _Please_."

"Ah," Melisande sighed. "That's what I was waiting for. So polite, Grand Admiral."

Two fingers, stroking him in that same place; distantly, he realized why she kept her nails filed so short. Then she was thrusting them, curling them in just the right way to make Thrawn moan—and he was moaning, now, all pretense at stoicism gone—

"I can take it now," he said, his voice harsher than he intended, more demanding. "You don't have to tease—"

She slapped his buttock with the hand that wasn't busy fucking him with her fingers, and he clenched around them involuntarily, briefly halting her movements.

"I will do what I like," she said icily. "Who are you to dictate my actions?"

"My apologies," he panted, and thrust his hips against her hands. "Don't stop."

Silence and stillness. He knew what she wanted. She enjoyed making him beg.

"Don't stop, _please_."

"Oh, I think I will." Her hands moved away from him; he heard the rustle of fabric. A cloth, perhaps a towel? "In fact, since you seem so eager for it, let's see how well you take the plug."

Then she was pressing the slick metal plug against his entrance.

It was much, much bigger slipping inside him than it had seemed when he held it in his hands. Thrawn bit down on his arm to keep from crying out, then gave a throaty moan anyway as it spread him open, wider than he'd ever been before. Then it was inside him, a heavy weight that slid against the toe-curling spot with every little movement he made.

"You _can_ take it," Melisande said. He imagined her raised eyebrows, and smiled to himself. "Very well done, Grand Admiral. Do you do this often?"

A trick question. Which answer did she want? Yes—that he was whorish, that he let other people fuck him regularly—a lie. Or no, that she was the only one to touch him like this, the only lover he had taken in a very long time, that his own private pleasures were not a replacement for the sensation of someone else's hands on him.

"Do you?" he asked instead, rather nonsensically. 

She laughed.

"Not with anyone like you," she said, and stroked his back. "I don't think I've met anyone like you."

Flattery. Perhaps.

"Now get on your back."

Thrawn obeyed. Every movement caused the plug to shift inside him, its heavy weight reminding him each second of the woman who had put it in him. The interlocking key pattern was on the base of the plug as well; the sigil of House Shahrizai, he thought. Melisande's mark, inside him.

There was, he thought hazily, something pleasant about the sensation of being owned.

She affixed the cuffs to his wrists and ankles now, swift and sure, as if she had done this a thousand times. The wrist cuffs she tied together and pinned down with something like a stake—although it could not be, not on this expensive carpet. Then his legs were spread wide, wider than was comfortable, and the cuffs hitched to some kind of bar, forcing him open. Vulnerable.

On his back, blinded, tied, and plugged, Thrawn shivered as he felt the weight of Melisande's regard come to bear on him. He knew what she was looking at: his cock, like a human's yet so very unlike. Thrawn visualized it, compared it to a human's. Where a human only had the head with its flared corona, he had five similar ridges lining the column of his shaft, their blue phalanges tinted purple from the blood pulsing in his cock, and from the membranes underneath them oozed a viscous, translucent blue fluid, half-gel, half-liquid. It was an indication of arousal surer than the hardness of his cock.

Thrawn listened to the pattern of Melisande's breath as she examined him. He couldn't derive any information from it.

Then her touch, a fingertip tracing around the ridge of the topmost phalange. Thrawn's cock jumped and he inhaled sharply. The finger dipped lower, to the second phalange, and then slipped under the protrusion and into the slippery fluid. Gentle; she was so gentle, now, caressing him with the lightest of touches. Thrawn squirmed, his hands clenching and straining against the cuffs, but did not force her hand. He couldn't if he had tried.

Instead, he said roughly, "You don't need to be delicate with me—I won't break."

"Ah," Melisande said, amused. "Good. It would be such a pity to break you—but such a pleasure, too."

Her hand encircled his cock and stroked up the shaft, squeezing at each ridge, and Thrawn bit his lip and groaned, his head tilting back, baring the column of his throat to her. Her other hand ringed his neck, applied the lightest of pressure. It would be unwise to ask for more. He wanted to nonetheless, wanted to be choked hard by her, to walk the line between sex and danger.

"But you've imagined it, haven't you?" she asked him, her voice a purr. "Being broken to harness by my hand. You've imagined what it would be like to be mine, wholly and completely."

"I have," he managed after a moment. Her hand was thoroughly soaked by the fluid now, and she was using the lubrication to play with the plug inside him, sliding it partially out then back in, fucking him with it as if it were a cock. "It is—it is a pleasant fantasy. But only that."

"Only a fantasy," Melisande mused. "So you say now, Grand Admiral."

Her mouth on his cock, sucking lightly at the head, swirling under the ridge to lap up the liquid there. Thrawn cried out and arched his hips, but she pulled away until he lay still again, then started licking at him again. Every time he thrust, she stopped, but he could not bear the sensation without moving. It was torture. Exquisite torture.

Thrawn was lit up, his nerve endings seeming to drink in every sensation and send it all to his brain at once: not just Melisande's mouth and hands on him, but the tickle of the carpet against his back, the scrape of the cuffs around his wrists, the strain in his thighs as he attempted to squeeze his legs together, but couldn't against the bar. The puff of air from the air purifier floated across his skin, making his nipples tighten. Everything was sexual right now, every sensation erotic.

He was vaguely aware that he had come undone, that he had allowed her to bring him to this mental space. Mostly, he was aware of how much he wanted her to continue; how much he wanted to come. And how much he didn't.

"What would you do for me, if I asked it of you?" she asked curiously. She ran a wet finger up his chest, circled his nipples, then brought it to his lips. Thrawn sucked his own fluids off her finger greedily, nipping at it as she pulled it from his mouth, which earned him a stinging slap across the face.

"What would you ask?" he replied. _Almost anything_ was the real, non-evasive answer—with an emphasis on almost.

"Oh, for you to tell me everything," she said offhandedly. "Everything about you—your secret wants and hurts, the desires of which you don't dare speak. Everything that makes you _you_."

Thrawn managed a laugh.

"Is that all?" he asked.

"Of course not," she said, perfectly serious. "But it is where I would begin."

She stroked his face; Thrawn turned his head toward her as if she were the Coperon sun. "You see, Grand Admiral, I have no interest in command. I am unlike you in this way. I have no desire for government-enforced loyalty, or for the responsibilities of leadership. And yet, that is the only way you know this game, this dance of dominance and submission." She leaned closer to him until he could feel her breath on his cheek. "I would show you my way—I would make you love me, free of conditions. Love me, devote yourself to me, and it would please you as much as it would me."

He was still tremendously aroused, but the analytical part of his brain that had disengaged was now spinning up again.

"Love without reciprocation is not a love worth having," he told her, more honestly than he would have in a different situation. She shifted so her body was over him, his cock slipping in the wetness of her sex—she, at least, was not unmoved by the events of the night. Astride him, she ground her hips in a slow circle, and Thrawn sighed and squirmed as she slid across his cock over and over, tauntingly.

"Yes," she murmured. "And do you know, Grand Admiral, the only thing I truly love is the game."

"Not the game of sex," he said with a gasp as she reached back to toy with the plug. It wasn't a question.

"No," she agreed. He could hear her smile. "But you know the game too—you understand its details, its manipulations. You play it as well as I."

"I have a proposition for you," Thrawn said, thinking simultaneously of his plans for Terre d'Ange, his schemes in the Unknown Regions, and how very badly he wanted to be inside her, and she laughed.

"Ill timing, Grand Admiral," she said lightly, and moved so she was straddling his face. She wrapped her fingers around his cuffed wrists, pinning him down with her full body weight, making his wrists ache. "Perhaps if you please me, I will consider it."

Thrawn was more than happy to oblige. He knew she would listen to his proposal regardless of how hard he made her come, but both desire and a sense of pride compelled him to do the best job he could.

Eagerly, he lifted his face to her wet sex. Teasingly, she lifted her hips so he had to strain his neck for it, his tongue darting out of his mouth and barely flicking across her folds.

"Work harder for it," she said, and he unwittingly made a frustrated noise and did his best to obey. His cock strained; the plug moved inside him as he shifted to reach a better angle, and he gasped.

"Poor thing," Melisande said, her voice dripping sympathy and condescension. "Perhaps this is more to your taste."

She lowered her hips suddenly and nearly suffocated Thrawn in the process. He did not object; it was more to his taste than the desperate licking of before.

He had always enjoyed oral sex, liked the power it gave him over his partner; it was, he felt, an inherently dominant act, both because he held his partner's pleasure in his hand, and because it was an act of trust to allow his teeth so near to their sensitive places.

Thrawn did not feel dominant right now.

Melisande took her pleasure from his mouth, her hands viciously yanking his hair to position him exactly how she liked him, her voice sharp as it lashed commands through the air: "Lick. Small circles—yes, like that. Like—" A moan. Thrawn felt a spike of pride as he applied himself to his task. "Now suck. Right there—"

Her thighs clamped hard around his head and her nails dug into his scalp as she rocked her hips against his face. In orgasm, she made no sound but a serpentine hiss, a quiet exhalation that belied the way she trembled all over.

When she finished, she sat on his face for a long moment before her hands went to the cuffs around his wrists, undoing them. She dismounted, and said, her voice impossibly unruffled, "Make yourself come for me. And take that blindfold off; I want you to look me in the eye when you do."

The command made Thrawn shudder. It seemed unbearably intimate, looking at Melisande after spending so long in the quietness of the dark. But he took off the blindfold anyway, blinking as his eyes adjusted.

She was watching him intently, cross-legged on the floor, somehow as regal naked as she had been in her full bird of prey costume.

"Go on," she said. "Tell me what you're thinking about."

"You," he said honestly, and took himself in hand. Chiss had sex like humans, with thrusting, but the quick strokes humans used to masturbate were not for him. He squeezed his cock, rubbed his thumb along the underside of the bottom-most ridge with firm and even pressure. His voice hitched. "I'm thinking of you."

"And?" she prompted. Her blue-violet eyes were locked onto his, boring a hole in his skull. Was this how other people felt when _he_ looked at them? He had been told it was so.

"And how much I would delight—" Another squeeze; more fluid leaked out from under the phalanges, and he gathered it up in his palm to slick his entire cock in it. "—delight in being your slave, as you described."

"Would you," Melisande said. She had moved so she was on her knees, and her hand was between her legs. Thrawn tilted his head but could not see details.

"Yes," he groaned. He was stroking himself in slow, even movements, squeezing intermittently, twisting at the wrist to increase the sensation.

"I would brand you," Melisande informed him, and pressed the finger of her free hand to his chest. "Here, with the House insignia."

"I—I would not belong to House Shahrizai," he said, mangling the pronunciation of the unfamiliar name badly. He would not have done so before, but he did not feel quite sober, as if Melisande had drugged him. Drunk on sex—how terribly human of him. "I would belong only to you."

"Yes," she hissed, "yes, you would," and she reached out to cover his hand on his cock with hers, matching his rhythm. Her hand seemed small and pale against his, but strong. "The jewel of my collection, undoubtedly."

She cupped the tip of his cock with her hand, her thumb skating along the fluid membranes below the ridge as his pace sped up. Thrawn gasped and arched his back and clenched his eyes shut as his orgasm hit him. It was not so much the sensation of pleasure as the joy of something taut finally breaking free, overwhelming; he cried out; he was crying; he shuddered and spent himself in her hand and finally lay still beneath her.

"Beautiful," Melisande said.

* * *

  
As Thrawn buttoned up his tunic, he noticed the bruises around his wrists, indigo and navy in the dim light. He tugged at his sleeve; they would stay hidden enough for his purposes. He could indulge himself and leave them, a reminder of the night until they faded and all he would have were his memories.

Melisande hadn't wanted to cuddle, had done nothing but hand him a towel and watch him clean up in thoughtful silence. He appreciated that; he could not abide being touched after sex. A side effect, he thought, of decades in the Empire, where sex was less about affection than about power. Much like sex with Melisande.

She lounged on the couch in front of the stocks, now, eyes on him, comfortable in her nakedness. Thrawn took the opportunity to stare boldly at her, appreciating the strong lines of her body, her generous curves.

Her smile had dimples, even when it cut like it did. It was deceptive. He liked it.

"You said you had a proposition for me," she said, once he was fully dressed and his hair combed flat again.

"I do," he said, eyeing her. All she cared about was the game, she had said, and he believed her; it would be dangerous to tell her everything. He chose his words carefully. "I have created—a network, shall we say, of systems with a vested interest in protecting themselves from external threats. Perhaps Terre d'Ange would like to join this network."

"You should be speaking to the king about this," she said, her face opaque.

"I would rather have someone I can trust," he said, watching her closely. Her eyes narrowed slightly, but she took the bait. It was that one word, _trust_ : manipulation was like a drug to her, and the urge to manipulate him would be too much for her to resist.

"I'm interested," she said slowly. "Tell me more."

Thrawn allowed himself to smile at her. It was not a pleasant smile; when he was scheming, they rarely were.

But Melisande smiled back.

"Very well," he said, and sat down on the couch next to her.

He told her much, that night.

But he did not tell her everything.

* * *

  
Before he left, she seized him by the collar and kissed him boldly, in front of her servants and the people on the street. He let her do this, kissed her back just as fiercely. She nipped his lip and let him go.

"Next time," she breathed, "you will crawl for me."

"Perhaps," Thrawn said, and stepped away from Melisande Shahrizai. 

His breath was coming short from the kiss, but he was in control. He was in control. "And perhaps not."  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Melisande's dress is inspired by [this gown](https://xenoarcana.tumblr.com/post/173489086101/katwrech-nehirose-theskaldspeaks-thats).


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